Sometimes Naughty, Sometimes Nice

by Kimberly Raye

  “It's an unwritten rule of the universe. Look your best and you never run into anyone. Look like hell and you'll see everyone you know.”

  But rules were made to be broken, as far as Xandra was concerned. From here on out, she intended to be fully prepared for a face-to-face with Beau. No more ratty old bathrobes or puffy, tear-filled eyes or Medusa hair. She was going to show Beau exactly what he'd been missing all these years.

  In the meantime…She eased the painful pumps from her feet and slid a few buttons free on her blazer as she turned her attention to the stack of accounts receivable Kimmy had placed on her desk.

  It was time to get as comfortable as possible and get back to work.

  Chapter Seven

  We've got trouble with a capital ‘B,’” Annabelle Marshall declared when Beau stopped by the main office of Hire-a-Hunk near lunchtime.

  Annabelle was an old college friend, his personal assistant, and the only woman Beau knew who could recite the name and catalog number of every type of wood offered by Home Depot. In a former life, she'd been a Dallas Cowboys'cheerleader. A knee injury and the twenty extra pounds accumulated during recovery had killed her career, and so she'd come to him for a job. She'd started as a receptionist, fielding phone calls and writing the occasional job order, a task that had come easy since she'd worked with her father's construction business while growing up. The man had passed away before she'd entered college and the business liquidated, but the know-how had stayed with her. She'd been a natural for the job.

  But as the company had grown, Beau had started to need more than a receptionist. He'd needed someone who was outgoing to meet with clients when he was too busy. Someone with a head for numbers who could price jobs in his absence. Someone who knew how to order supplies. Someone who wasn't intimidated by a roomful of roughneck men.

  Annabelle had been perfect for the new job, not just because of her background with her father's company and her business degree, but because she actually liked roughnecks. So much so that she'd married Warren, Beau's crew chief, a few years back.

  It was just after twelve and the room buzzed with life, from the automatic coffeemaker dripping in the far corner, to the computer screen lit with a spreadsheet detailing this week's supply order, to the half dozen men that gathered around Annabelle's desk as she assigned more jobs. The other eight men employed by the company—Warren the crew boss, Tom the electrical expert, Bobby the concrete man and five others whose specialties included everything from drywall to flooring—had been assigned to Xandra's house and were already at the location.

  Beau had meant to get out there first thing this morning, but he'd been delayed finishing up the renovation of a doctor's office down in the medical center. Once he left his office, he intended to head out to Xandra's place and get busy.

  “The word ‘trouble'doesn’t start with a ‘B,’” he told Annabelle as he took the stack of work orders she handed him, gave them a look-see, and handed them back.

  “It does if you're Savannah Sawyer and you write a weekly column for the Houston Chronicle called ‘Just Us Girls,’ otherwise known as ‘I'm a Bitter Divorcée Who Likes to Bitch About Men.’” She eyed him. “‘Bitch'being the key word, mind you.” While Annabelle could stand up to any man, she had trouble doing the same with women. Particularly holier-than-thou controlling women who reminded her of her three older sisters and her mother.

  “So what does she have to do with us?”

  “Savannah Sawyer was the deck refinish job called in last week. The one who wanted the cedar stain that we had to special order.”

  All of the employees at Hire-a-Hunk had general repair knowledge, but what made them so valuable was that each man had his specialty. Jobs were divided up based on skill and expertise. Bryan was the in-house deck man. A woodworking genius when it came to refinishing, and one of the youngest men at the company. At twenty-six, he still had his six-pack abs even if his hairline was doing a fast retreat toward the back of his head.

  “Bryan's taking care of that, isn't he?”

  “He was, until ten minutes ago. She called and said that when she hired a hunk, she expected a blond hunk because, in her opinion, brunettes are not hunky at all. Especially balding brunettes. Her ex was a balding brunette and he was a no-good slimy snake. She said to make sure that we sent someone else out this morning because our ad promises full satisfaction and she won't be satisfied with anything less than a blond hunk minus the receding hairline.”

  His guys were aging and Beau recognized that, but a customer had yet to be so bold as to point it out. “You've got to be kidding.”

  “Do I look like I'm kidding?” She held up her mug. “I'm on my fifth cup of coffee in as many minutes.”

  “But you don't drink coffee.”

  “Exactly.” She took another sip. “At the rate I'm going, I'll be over the edge and into Coffee Drinkers Anonymous before you even get started on the Farrel house, much less win that blasted competition and earn this company some much needed respect.”

  “It's only three weeks until the judging. You can tough it out until then. After that, no one will be calling for a hunk. They'll be contacting H&H Construction and you won't have to worry about the Savannah Sawyers of the world. In the meantime, send Jack.” He motioned to the man standing near the water cooler. “He knows enough about flooring to finish the job and he's blond.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but he's got a beer belly, which pulls him out of the running for hunk of the year.”

  He grinned. “You really think she'll notice?”

  “You really think she won't?”

  Beau fought down a wave of anxiety, walked to the coffeemaker, and helped himself to a cup. Pitch black. “Send Jack,” he said again. “He's the most capable besides Bryan and the work comes first.”

  “I know that and you know that. It's Savannah Sawyer who needs to know it.” She fingered the stack of work orders, pulled the instructions, and handed them to Jack. “I've got a really bad feeling about her. I wouldn't be at all surprised to see a mention of us in her column.”

  “As in she's very satisfied with a job well done and she wants to tell the world?”

  “As in don't call them because they're just a bunch of beer-belly bubbas.”

  “Maybe she likes beer bellies.” If he'd learned one thing over the years, it was that you couldn't second-guess a woman's taste. Annabelle, who was quite a knockout, had fallen hook, line, and sinker for Warren, despite his own beer belly and receding hairline and his hobby of burping in tune with his favorite song. “You worry too much. When all is said and done, she'll be happy with the job.”

  Every customer, even the most difficult, ended up being happy because Hire-a-Hunk stood behind their guarantee of satisfaction. They were the best and they proved it in the end with a job well done.

  The trouble was, it was getting harder and harder to get the work in the first place. But soon the phone would be ringing off the hook with people who wanted the best, not the best looking, and H&H would have a solid, secure spot in the industry.

  Xandra Farrel's house was his ticket to that security. All he had to do was concentrate on the job at hand and forget the woman herself. And the past.

  He ignored the sudden image of her that pushed into his head, and walked into the adjoining office. A massive desk took up most of the room, along with a leather chair and a small file cabinet. Leather gasped and groaned as he sank down behind the desk and set his cup to the side. His fingertips brushed the smooth wood and he closed his eyes for a second.

  There was nothing as inviting as the feel of smooth wood beneath his hands. That's why he left a lot of the administrative work to Annabelle and did as much hands-on as possible. The average fix-it jobs did little to satisfy him, however, because Beau didn't enjoy fixing things.

  He liked to make things, to create something from nothing or, as his mother used to say, to create something beautiful from something ugly. He'd taken a half rotted oak tree from his dad
's backyard and turned it into a rich piece of furniture. He'd hand-carved not only each leg of this desk, but the scalloped edges, as well.

  His apartment in the Woodlands—a suburb of Houston—was filled with everything from chairs to tables to a headboard he'd crafted just last year. He'd even made a hope chest for Annabelle when she'd married Warren.

  “Jack, right?” Annabelle's voice sounded from the doorway and he glanced up.

  “Stop worrying. This Sawyer woman will be happy. I guarantee it.”

  “You're the boss.”

  Unfortunately .

  As soon as the thought entered his head, he pushed it back out. He liked being the boss. He enjoyed the freedom that came with running his own company, even if it did bring a world of headaches.

  He was his own boss, for Christ's sake. Who wouldn't want to be the boss? He came and went as he pleased. He called the shots. He controlled his own destiny.

  If only the notion were half as appealing as it used to be.

  Beau Hollister was definitely not the same bad boy she'd crawled into the backseat with on that humid November night.

  Xandra came to this conclusion as she pulled up near the curb late Monday afternoon and stared through the windshield at the scaffolding that now surrounded her falling-down house. The scaffolding platform extended up to the second floor, where Beau stood in front of her upstairs bedroom window, prying a rotted shutter loose.

  Sure, he was still bad, as in mesmerizing violet eyes and a wicked smile that could charm any woman right out of her panties—any shy, naive, desperate woman who didn't own one of the most successful sexual aid companies in the country, that is. But the word “boy” didn't even touch the 100 percent prime, grade A, hunk-a-hunk of beefcake man standing in front of her.

  Her gaze started at the bottom and worked its way up.

  Worn denim, the cuffs slightly frayed where they bunched over his dusty brown work boots, molded the long length of his legs. The material clung to his thighs and cupped his crotch. A faded black T-shirt stretched across his broad chest and hinted at the rock-hard definition beneath. A white hard hat perched atop his dark head and shielded the upper half of his face from the fading daylight. His forearms tightened and muscles bulged as he hammered the crowbar beneath the edge of the shutter and pulled. Wood splintered and cracked. His full lips pulled into a determined line as he turned to the opposite side, hammered the bar beneath the edge and pulled again.

  Her gaze lingered on the broad outline of his back before making a beeline south.

  He had a really great tush. Not too wide or overly round like some of the guys she saw walking the treadmill at her gym. Nor was it too flat or narrow like the guys she saw pumping weights. His was tight and firm and just wide enough to fit his hips and strong thighs.

  Then again, he'd always had a great tush. He'd always had a great everything back in high school. He'd been more gangly and thin back then, his body more lean than muscular, but he'd still been a hottie with the same undress-you eyes and teasing grin.

  Beau was the boy that every mama forbade their daughter to date, and so no one had dated him. The girls had sneaked out with him after football games, or went sniffing around his dad's gas station when they craved what their Polo-wearing, college-bound boyfriends couldn't give them: an exciting taste of the forbidden.

  While he hadn't wanted for female company, he'd still been considered a social outcast. Beau and Xandra had had that in common, although her excuse had nothing to do with being working class in a small town full of academic snobs and old money. Rather, she'd been the fat chick, and her mother was the infamous Jacqueline Farrel—a militant, morally defunct nutcase in a community where marriage wasn't a choice, but an expected way of life.

  You were born. You grew up. You got married. You squeezed out a couple of kids. You played the doting grandmother once your couple of kids squeezed out a couple of their own. You died. End of story.

  A fairy tale as far as Xandra was concerned. She'd grown up with a different mantra all together, and so she hadn't ever fit with the rest of her peers. Beau hadn't fit either, but he'd fit in perfectly with Xandra's plans. She'd needed experience and he'd oozed the stuff, and so she'd asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance.

  A big mistake.

  She knew that now, but back then it had felt like the right move. From the moment she'd climbed into his car and suggested they forfeit the dance, right up to the point that he'd killed the engine, leaned over and kissed her.

  She could still feel the firm intensity of his full lips, the slow glide of his tongue against the seam of her mouth, the soft thrust as she'd opened up for him…

  She cleared her throat and forced the image aside.

  Sure, it had been a great kiss, followed by a dozen more equally great kisses, but once they'd progressed from kissing to everything else, things had gone downhill. Fast. Which was why it had turned out to be not only a mistake, but a good waste of five minutes. She hadn't come out of it any more knowledgeable about the reality of sex, except to conclude that it had to get better or she would just as soon check herself into the nearest convent.

  It had gotten better, of course, because she'd gotten better. She was more knowledgeable now. More experienced. And a good twenty pounds lighter. She'd gone from the chubby virgin chick Beau Hollister had been in such a hurry to be done with, to the hip, semisvelte—at least when she squeezed into a tight black skirt like the one she was wearing right now—CEO of a thriving sexual aid company, and she was now worthy of every man's slow, sweet time.

  Okay, so maybe not every man. Mark had obviously moved on to greener pastures, just like her steady boyfriend during her freshman year in college, and the two blind dates she'd had—thanks to her older sister Eve who'd been determined to help her beef up her sexual ré-sumé—during the summer between high school and college. But Beau didn't have to know any of that.

  Nor did he have to know that she would rather watch back-to-back episodes of Howard Stern than slide her feet into a pair of four-inch Manolo Blahniks like the ones she was wearing now. And he certainly didn't have to know that she wasn't the least bit comfortable dressed in a sexy business suit, particularly since she'd gained ten pounds and said suit was much tighter than it should have been. Or that she slept in sweat socks and an oversized University of Texas T-shirt. Or that the only reason she dressed herself up like CEO Barbie day after day wasn't because she liked it, but because she had an image to maintain.

  But again, Beau didn't have to know any of that.

  As far as he was concerned, she looked like a full-blown hottie. She walked like one. She talked like one. Therefore, she was one. And because he'd overlooked all that hottie potential way back when, he would now have to content himself with admiring her hotness from afar.

  With that thought in mind, she squared her shoulders, pushed out her well-rounded 34Ds, opened her car door, stepped out, and made her way up the walkway. Wood creaked as she mounted the first porch step. She saw the scaffold tremble as he turned overhead and stared down at her.

  “Don't let me interrupt.” She didn't glance up as she topped the steps and picked her way past the piles of supplies.

  Her heart pounded faster and louder than the drummer for Metallica. A crazy reaction since she had no reason to be nervous. It wasn't like she was still attracted to him, for heaven's sake. Sure, he was good-looking but Xandra wasn't the least bit swayed by looks. She wanted substance. Character. A man who wouldn't be put off by a few extra pounds or a pair of ratty sweatpants.

  Hello? Since when do you want anything from a man other than viable sperm?

  She didn't. It's just that she wanted her child to grow up with character and substance and so it would only stand to reason that she would want those qualities in a potential father. Yep, character and substance were going at the top of her Perfect Daddy list.

  As for the heart pounding…That was a purely hormonal reaction due to the fact that she and Mark hadn't had sex in over si
x months. In her current state of deprivation, she would have gone weak at the knees for any halfway decent-looking man, especially one standing an arm's length away, sweaty and smiling.

  Yep, he was smiling.

  She swallowed and concentrated on making her way toward the front door.

  “Just keep doing what you're doing,” she called out.

  “Actually, I'm nearly done for the day.” Metal creaked as he descended the scaffold ladder. Dusty brown work boots filled her peripheral vision to her right as his feet met the porch. “Just give me a few minutes,” he told her, “and I'll clear some of this stuff off to the side and out of your way.”

  “No need, really. I can make it through—Ugh.” Her heel came down on something very slippery and she grappled for one of the scaffold legs. It trembled, providing little reinforcement, and she teetered. But before she followed her briefcase to the ground, a strong hand closed over her upper arm. His fingers burned into her and a delicious heat curled in her stomach.

  “You look really good.” The words were out before she could stop them. “I, uh, mean the house looks really good.” She tore her gaze from his and glanced around. “Great.”

  He gave her a puzzled look. “We're in the process of stripping it and tearing out the rotting wood.”

  “I, um, can see that, but for an old house being stripped and torn out, it, uh, looks really great.”

  Atta girl, Barbie. Wow him with your wit and get him to lust after you intellectually as well as physically.

  She licked her lips and gave herself a mental shake. “What I mean is, I'm sure the house is going to look great when everything is done.”

  He grinned. “You're right about that. The details on this place are ingenious. Once everything is sanded and refinished, the rotted pieces replaced, it's really going to be something.”

  She heard the words, but they didn't quite penetrate. She was still stuck on his grin. His mouth crooked at the corner and his face softened and his violet eyes sparkled.